Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

“Giving aid and comfort to the enemy, would you say?”

“What I would say is that from what I heard at the time, it is almost certain that some farmers out on the frontier and a few British soldiers were cut down by bullets from guns that came from Eli Bolt.” All of the above discussion was carried on in tones barely above a whisper. There could be no question of Mr. Bilbo having been overheard by the two men at the nearby table, and by the time he had concluded, both were staring across the space that separated them from us. No doubt Bolt had recognized Mr. Bilbo — or was at that moment trying to place him.

“An interesting tale you’ve told,” said Sir John. “Yet I fear the name you’ve given him is only something like that one I seek now to remember.”

“Names can be changed, even invented,” said Mr. Bilbo. “You know that as well as I, Sir John.”

“Oh, indeed. Faces are more difficult to alter, and voices almost impossible. Still, since you are certain of the fellow’s identity, and I have my own suspicions, as well, I would like to know what Mr. Bolt and his companion are doing here in Bath.”

After hesitating a moment, I gathered my courage, leaned forward, and then said, “Perhaps I can offer a guess, sir.” Wherewith, I told him of the meeting Clarissa and I had had with the two men at the other table.

Of all that occurred thereafter in Bath, I have now only a little to add — and that in summary. First of all, let it be said that Sir John Fielding welcomed what I had offered in hazard, only voicing his desire that we find some way to confirm that the two sitting near to us were indeed the claimant and the one who was said to be always in his company. Such reassurance came from the innkeeper of the Bear Tavern himself; he showed us that the two were registered as Lawrence Paltrow and Elijah Bolton. The latter prompted Sir John to comment, “When men set about to improve upon the name given them by their parents, more often than not the original may be found signaling to us coyly from the counterfeit. Elijah Bolton is undoubtedly the same man as Eli Bolt, though I cannot be absolutely certain that he is my man, for neither is that one the name I have been searching for.”

Having learned all he could at this time and in this place, Sir John surprised us by consenting to accept Mr. Bilbo’s invitation that we ride along with him in his coach and four to the center of town; once arrived, he left us immediately and went in search of a proper game of cards. Lady Fielding was determined that since it be Friday, we should all attend one of the balls for which Bath is so justly famed. Clarissa Roundtree thought it a superb way to pass our last evening there. I was, I admit, curious, Sir John was simply obliging: For one afflicted as he was, there was naught to gain, neither in social discourse nor physical exercise. Within the assembly room, however, he found great pleasure in listening to the music. He had me station him near the five musicians that he might hear them better and without interruption as Lady Fielding set off in the company of Clarissa to discuss matters with the ladies she had met while taking the waters.

Thus were we occupied, when Thaddeus Bester, Magistrate of Bath, descended upon Sir John, greeting him as jovially as he might if they were long-acquainted, long-separated friends. He came soon to reveal the reason for his approach when, following that effusive welcome, he puffed his cheeks, pursed his lips, then queried in a manner most innocent: “I take it that you found nothing of significance in the Widow Paltrows quarters?”

Sir John offered him a rather frigid smile. “Nothing that would interest you.”

“I thought not,” said he, clearly relieved. “Bath is a peaceful place, and not the sort of setting for one of your London murders.”

“Sir, let me assure that I am not in the least possessive in the matter of homicide. And let me also reject the notion, implicit in your statement, that London or any other large city has a monopoly on murder.” With that, he put out his hand, groping for my arm. “Come along, Jeremy,” said he. “I believe Lady Fielding may require our presence.”

I took Sir Johns elbow and was about to lead him away, when he signaled to me that he had not done with the Bath magistrate. We halted.

“I said, sir, that I had found naught to interest you upstairs in Mr. Paltrow’s rooms. Probably true. Yet I would carry a bad conscience away with me from Bath if I did not advise you that I learned a great deal from talking below with Mrs. Eakins, the landlady. Since she has not been interviewed, I advise you also to talk to her. There is much to learn from that woman.” Then, with a sharp bob of his head to Mr. Bester, he took his leave, wishing him a good evening. And then to me the call to action: “ Jeremy! ”

I guided him through the crowd, round about the large room, looking this way and that for some sign of Lady Fielding and Clarissa. It was a grand hall, well lit, with candles burning from holders set in the wall and a great chandelier hanging above the dance floor in the exact center of the room. Beneath it, the dancers ranged wide across the space in a stately minuet. And while there were many thus engaged, there were even more encircling them, filling the corners, congregating at the doors which opened out into the garden. Male and female, they chattered and laughed so loudly that at certain places about the room it was near impossible to hear the music. How were we to find Lady Fielding in such chaos?

In fact, reader, she found us. Whilst I was anxiously looking left and right, I felt a rapid tap-tap upon my shoulder, turned, and found Clarissa had been beating upon it with her fan. (Ah, yes, her mistress had decked her out in full costume for the occasion, complete with accessories such as fan and gloves.) Lady Fielding had spied us from her place near the door and sent Clarissa to fetch us.

“Jack,” said Lady Fielding when he came to her, “it has grown so warm here inside. I wonder, would you take me out into the garden so that I might breathe a bit of that cool night air? I am quite desperate for relief.”

“Why, of course, my dear,” said he. “Yet if you are, as you say, ‘desperate,’ why did you not take yourself out for a breath of air?”

“But. . really. . a woman unaccompanied out there in the darkness? What would people say?”

“Kate, you go about London at all hours attending to emergencies at the Magdalene Home, why should you hesitate? I truly don’t understand.”

“Of course — but that is London, and this is Bath. There are dukes and duchesses, barons and baronesses, present here this evening!”

“Do you honestly believe that such as they would bring with them a higher standard of conduct? On the contrary, in my experience the nobility, so-called, tend to propagate misconduct wherever they go. They are bad masters and poor examples.”

“Even William Murray, Earl of Mansfield?”

“There are exceptions, of course, to that rule as to any other.” He extended his arm to her. “But let us not bicker over such matters. I should be happy to accompany you into the garden.”

She took his arm quite proudly and moved the two of them to the door. “We should not be long,” she called back to us.

“Take as much time as you like,” Clarissa called back as we watched them disappear into the darkened garden. Then did she turn upon me and fix me with a keen stare. “Jeremy …,” said she in a manner most conspiratorial.

“Yes?” I could tell she was up to no good.

“I should like you to do something for me.”

“And what is that, pray tell?”

“I should like you to dance with me.”

“Ah!” said I. “Then I fear I must disappoint you, for I do not dance. I do not know how.”